The viewer substantially changes what he or she sees, according to his or her personality, historical era or circumstances of life at the time of the analysis, even though the work remains the same and does not change materially.

There are cases when the artist produces a new work of art to display his reading of the original work. An extreme and paradoxical, but also paradigmatic case is that of Pierre Menard who, according to Borges, rewrote the Quijote word for word, but nevertheless produced a work absolutely different from that of Cervantes, for how could the same words in the 20th century mean the same than those written at the beginning of the 17th century?

In other cases the new reading considerably distorts the original intention and, with a parodic gesture, questions an essential feature of the work it copies. Such is the case of the portrait of Madame Recamier, painted around 1800 by Jacques-Louis David and “re-read” in 1950 by René Magritte.

The freshness, tenderness and charm of the famous Mme. Recamier is transformed by Magritte in this impossible, rigid and enigmatic coffin which surprises the viewer with its unusual but very real message. The hymn to beauty and youth has become a fatal reminder of death. Magritte has created a particular memento mori reminding us that of the protagonist and of the painter of the picture as well as of all those who knew them, remain but the clothes, furniture and ornaments: this is why the painting is dominated by the receptacle of their final resting place. They themselves, as Góngora would say, have turned “en tierra, en humo, en polvo, en nada” – “into earth, into smoke, into dust, into nothing”.

Apart of this exercise of interpretation, nobody could deny that the image of Magritte is quite disturbing.

A living example for this is my six and a half years old daughter who, after a quarrel and fight with her sister (or viceversa) retired to browse some books that were under the table in the living room. The Taschen volume on Magritte captured her attention and she asked me several times about the meaning of some surrealistic images, but then remained alone with the book

While I was resolving with her sister the homework arrears (delights of the suspension of classes in all schools of Argentina due to influenza A), she called me insistently several times, which I of course did not attend, reminding her in an increasingly annoying tone of the impossibility of ubiquity afflicting us poor mothers. When finally it was her turn, she sat there with the book open at the pages displaying the original painting of David, the response of Magritte and the sculpture of the latter made some years later:

She cannot yet read, so that she could not get more information of the book than what is provided by the three images. Of course she asked me, under the watching eyes of her sister, why that girl was a furniture in the other picture, and what kind of furniture that was…

I do not think one should always tell the truth to the kids, and I often perform the Jesuitic way of lie of not exactly unraveling the scientific details of things. I mean, I told them that the coffin was a “box” (was it not?). They kept on for a little more examining the images and then they forgot the matter.

Or at least that’s what I thought. But that night, as I entered their room, I found this on the small blackboard hanging on the wall:

Here I lie. My name is Stan Ion Mihăieş and I was a policeman. From here I went to Braşov where I was a good policeman. And now I give a salute to you because we will not see each other any more. I said farewell to the world at the age of 58, and reposed in the year of 1952.

The merry cemetery – this is also how it is “officialy” called: Cimitirul Vesel – is in the village of Săpânţa of Maramureş county at the Ukrainian-Romanian border, only some eighty kilometers from the Hungarian border. Its establishment was the merit of the local wood carver Stan Ioan Patraş who since around 1935 has become with his popular rhymed epitaphs and colored death images the specialist of wooden crosses in the village. These crosses attest the same breathtaking creativity of Romanians as among others the village churches and wooden houses painted both in- and outside all over Transylvania.

Here I lie. I was called Stan Anuţa, but in my childhood my name was Prilogan. Since I have married Vasil, we have lived well, everybody saw it in the village. I maintained a beautiful household, I was a believer, on the feast of Epiphany I served to the priest at our table during the benediction of our house. I do not serve any more, because I have moved here, under the shadow of the church.

I am Dioca Ţăhu, here I lie in the shadow of the plum tree. If you stop here, you will get to know that I was a column of my house which I have left crying and mourning. Since my childhood I loved to work, I loved very much to take care of the horse and sheep. None else in the village had such horses and sheep like me. I loved very much the horses, and they were also the reason of my death. For while sitting on the haystack on my coach, I fell down and this is how I found my death.

The verses and the images represent the life of the deceased as compressed into one definitive moment, in a fixed posture, like on the peasants’ photos: in the way as they wanted to see themselves and have themselves seen, indicating that they suited the norms of the community.

In a very few case the grave-post presents the deceased without any idealization. Who was it to permit to (or even pay for) having his or her kin immortalized in this way? One thing is certain that this cross will be a memento against drinking for the whole community in his death just like his person was in his life.

And here is the inn-keeper too, who was his ruin. True, he apologizes of having always cautiously retailed alcohol: “to whoever it went quickly to the head, I only gave a half shooter, but to the sober ones I gave with full glass”.

Cross of a child. “My dear sister, while you live, take care of my tomb.”

In other cases it is the reason of the death that they represent, when it was exceptional and tragic and thus memorable for all.

And here is the master himself, “the creator of the Merry Cemetery”. Here he was already modeled by his successor, but in the following image which hangs on the wall of the nearby Stan Ioan Patraş memorial house next to the carved tableau of Nicolae Ceauşescu with the Executive Committee of the Romanian Communist Party and the plate painted with the arms of the Communist Romania, he himself immortalized the moment when in 1935 he began to carve the first cross.

And by now even the cross of the master’s successor – who is here painting the cross of the master – has been painted by his successor.

My one-time master, the death and cemetery researcher, psychologist, painter and visual anthropologist Ernő Kunt, as he did in those times when after a long day of fieldwork we sat down at the discussion table, would also ask me now: what do you think about it? And I would say something like as in a traditional peasant community every important occurrence in the life of an individual from birth through wedding to death and to mourning is a public event, thus these grave-posts also speak to the community, reinforcing its norms and defining the place of the individual in it, much more than in our culture where death and grave are part of the personal sphere. I would also say that probably it was some local master in other cemeteries too who established a local style of crosses and headstones, and this is why every cemetery has its own style and face. He would smile with satisfaction, I don’t know whether for my reply or for what he is going to say, and would begin to expose his opinion. And I would listen attentively, for by now he knows already much more about death than anyone else.

Klee designed in 1939 his series of charming, clumsy and dutiful angels. Seventy years later the brothers (sisters?) or at least cousins of these angels seem to reappear in the blog of Poltavka. She cannot tell either from where she took them. From the original link they have simply disappeared. Angels are like this.

Vnder the figure of the butter flie, who so much delighteth in the brightnes of the fire, that of her owne accord she casteth her selfe into the same, and so is burned: may be signified, how that a man who goeth about, or affecteth euerie thing without deliberation and choice, getteth many times to himself shame, reproch and destruction withall.

I am in debt with two images that I had not published among the illustrations of the Russian edition of Omar Khayyam, partly in order not to destroy the beautiful arrangement of four times four, and partly because I wanted to write about them something more anyway.

The one of which I write today follows the usual iconography of Khayyam: wine and woman, desire and transience. It is not much different, let us say, from picture twelve on the four times four table. The only important difference is the candle in the background which attracts with its flame the night butterflies.

The image of the butterfly immolated in the light of the candle is one of the most important motifs of classical Persian poetry. Annemarie Schimmel, the greatest Western expert of Sufism writes in her A Two-Colored Brocade. The Imagery of Persian Poetry, 1992 that there is no more popular poetic animal than this, except for the nightingale (about which we have already written a couple of times, but still we are in debt with the presentation of its Persian meaning). It is no accident: both are soul symbols. The nightingale symbolizes the soul longing for God, while the butterfly the soul which, annihilated in God’s fire, becomes one with Him and thus reaches the supreme goal of all Sufi.

For a thousand years several thousand Persian poets have repeated this motif from India to Istambul and from the 9th-century Sufi martyr Hallaj to 20th-century Surrealist poetess Forough Farrokhzad. A beautiful classical example is the ghazel of Hafez:

true fire is not the one dancing in the flame of the candle
true fire is the one harvesting the butterfly

The image of the butterfly burnt in the flame of the candle was also known in European classical literature. Erasmus in Adagia 1.9.51, Pyraustae exitus – “Death of the fire-insect” – cites a fragment of Aeschylus as its earliest occurrence, which has survived just because it had been cited as a proverb already in the antiquity and included in Greek proverb collections: Δέδοικα μωρόν (correctly μῶρον) κάρτα πυραύστου μόρον, that is, among all follies the greatest folly is the death of the butterfly in the fire. The less flattering this opinion is, the more it renders palpable the already mentioned difference of the Greek and Persian world views. Accordingly, Erasmus interpreted the proverb as related to hastiness and ephemeral things. And Sebastián de Covarrubias emphasizes in his great encyclopedia that the butterfly is “the most stupid animal among all”.

In the West this motif was connected with love only two thousand years after its birth. It was Petrarch who in his 141st sonnett compared the eyes of the beloved lady to the flame, and himself to the butterfly circling around it. This metaphor was made popular in the Petrarchist poetry of the 1500s, exactly when Europe got into contact with Persian culture.

A pictorial form was given to the idea for the first time by polyhistor Gabriele Simeoni, the alumn of the humanist bishop Paolo Giovio whose main work, the History of Italy was already quoted by us a propos of the destruction of the Pope’s rhinoceros. The other, much slimmer but the more influential main work of Giovio was the Imprese militari et amorose, first published in 1550, in which he collected the personal symbols – imprese – of the most illustrious people of the previous half century. An enlarged edition was published in 1574 by Simeoni, who added forty or so imprese of his own invention. Number 15 was the above image, provided by him with the following explanation (first we quote the short version of the 1585 English edition, and then the original 1574 Italian version with our own translation):

Vnder the figure of the butter flie, who so much delighteth in the brightnes of the fire, that of her owne accord she casteth her selfe into the same, and so is burned: may be signified, how that a man who goeth about, or affecteth euerie thing without deliberation and choice, getteth many times to himself shame, reproch and destruction withall.

A noble friend of mine asked me to prepare him an amorous impresa. I have designed a butterfly flying around the flame of a candle with these words: COSÌ TROPPO PIACER CONDUCE A MORTE (SO DOTH PLEASANT DELIGHTS LEADE TO DESTRUCTION[Petrarch]), thus displaying the nature of this animal which, as it loves fire so much, was called πυραυστὴς by the Greek. This impresa can be interpreted in two ways. First, applied to the body, there is no doubt that, as Plato says, he who is in love has died for himself, and in thought (which is the life of the soul) he lives in the object of his love. This is why this philosopher told when encountering someone in love: This lives in another body. However, if we attribute love in a moral sense to the soul, then we can often observe that one delighted by corporal beauty (represented here with the light of the candle) forgets the Creator for sake of the created, and falling into scandal he finally loses both his body and his soul. As it usually happens with some stupid rich young people who, speaking about love, do not clearly know in which part of their body their head is to be found.

The invention of Simeoni has made a nice carreer in the flourishing symbolic literature of the 16-17th century. The essence of this refined society play called the emblem game by modern literature, which has left more than a million emblems to us (and how many times more must have perished!) was that poets and artists took their central metaphors from a well-known stock of symbols popularized by emblem books, and changed just subtly their allusions which was perceived with a great delight by the connoisseurs. The modern equivalents of this cultural play can be recognized by everyone in his/her own subculture even today.

Even before Simeoni it was attempted to make this motif part of the European visual imagery. Gilles Corrozet included it in his emblem book of 1543 with the motto La guerre doulce aux inexperimentez, “sweet is war for the inexperimented” (above left), echoing the celebrated pacifist chapter Dulce bellum inexpertis by Erasmus, to which a special section was dedicated in Pierre Bayle’s great Dictionnaire of 1695. This attempt to convert the chapters of Erasmus’ great collection of ancient proverbs, the Adagia into “visual proverbs” was characteristic of the early emblematics (this genre has been established in the 1530’s). In the case of this motif, however, Simeoni’s amorous interpretation proved to be much more successful than Corrozet’s anti-war interpretation. This latter only found one single echo in Juan Borja, Embassador in Prague (1581) whose emblem with the motto Fugienda peto, “I wish what should be avoided” (above right, from the 1697 edition) calls the attention to the dangers of the war to be avoided, but right then he interprets them for the inner war between reason and desires.

Simeoni’s amorous interpretation was continued by the great Dutch humanist Hadrianus Junius, who in his emblem Amoris ingenuis tormentum, “torments of false love” compared the candle to the woman destroying her lovers, and while dutifully quoting all the classical references of Erasmus, he also added to the citation from Petrarch another from the same author: Così de ben amar porto tormento, “this is how I bear the torments of my true love”. The double motto led to a strange misunderstanding. Gabriel Rollenhagen (above) included the image twice in his great collection of emblems (1611), taking the one from Simeoni and the other from Junius, both with its matching motto. George Wither, who converted Rollenhagen’s volume into the founding work of English emblematics, A collection of emblemes (1635) in fact found suspicious the duplication, and on the second image (to the right) he deleted the flame and the butterfly and changed the motto into Cui bono? that is, what is the use of a candle without light? Perhaps this was the boldest reinterpretation of the image which, however, found no followers. The final version of the symbol, published and painted in several editions, versions and languages, was that of Otho Vaenius in the Amorum emblemata (1608) where its proper meaning was also underlined with a small Cupido added.

Thus the Persian and European interpretation of this symbol shows a basic difference. Its European interpretation, which has inherited the odium of Aeschylus’ negative judgment – the greatest among all follies – refers to the lover falling captive and then victim to an unworthy – ignoble, humiliating, refused – love. In the Persian tradition, on the contrary, it represents the love of the highest order, aspiring to God and longing for the union with Him. As it was already observed by Hammer-Purgstall, the adventurous Austrian diplomat and orientalist, a first researcher of Persian literature, whose translation of Hafez inspired Goethe’s East-Western Divan: “The butterfly is, for the Eastern understanding, not, as it is for the Western, a symbol of instability and fluttering mind but rather a symbol of the most faithful love, which is oblivious of itself and sacrifices itself.” (Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens). This latter interpretation was also borrowed by Goethe in his poem Selige Sehnsucht.
Therefore the Russian illustration paralleling the earthly love praised by the sceptical Khayyam with the butterflies flying to the flame of the candle is a complete misunderstanding of the Persian tradition. A Persian would never use this latter symbol in a poem or miniature about earthly love, for it represents to him a much higher form of love and union.

In the Western tradition this image occurred one single time as a metaphor of divine love. Saint Teresa of Ávila in chapter 17.7 of the Libro de la Vida, describing the third degree of mystical prayer where will and reason have already settled, but memory still flutters around “like a night butterfly”, says this:

God, feeling pity on this lost condition of her, sometimes permits her to be burnt in the fire of that divine candle which had already reduced the other potencies to ashes, and she, by way of this great act of kindness losing her natural condition, becomes supernatural.

Here, however, the matter is absolutely not the same as in Sufi mystics, that is, the complete solution of the person in God, but only a temporary settling of a human potentia in order the person, preserving his or her own personality, gets into the most personal contact with God. This is the greatest difference between Christian mystics and Sufism, pantheism or ever the Goethean stirb und werde. The God of the Christians, who already includes three persons without melting them, does not abolish the personality of the person uniting with Him, but brings it to perfection. And the metaphor for this kind of union is not the butterfly annihilated in the fire, but rather two other images which are known both by the Western and the Persian tradition, but which were used in this sense only in the West: the phoenix reborn from the fire and the salamander which finds in the fire its final home and greatest perfection.